


"The Fudge Affair"

by Creamteasforever



Series: Fudge 'verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fatlock, Food, M/M, Science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creamteasforever/pseuds/Creamteasforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is determined to work out the dynamics of fudge-making to an exact science. It’s the only way he can score one over on his nefarious archnemesis James Moriarty and win the regard of his unimpressed Dean Lestrade. </p><p>With the help of bored fellow student John Watson, he may just succeed. A Fatlock university AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"The Fudge Affair"

**Author's Note:**

> “University AU!! (I love university AUs…) John, normally a member of the rugby/football/whatever team, breaks his leg. Shortly afterwards, by coincidence, he talks to Sherlock for the first time and they start spending time together. And, well, there’s weight gain. Definitely on John’s part, but if you want to, on Sherlock’s as well.”
> 
> Starts off with Chubbyjohnlock’s prompt. Ends about where you’d expect. In between there are school hijinks, chemistry, chaos, blatant line-stealing from ACD, quite a lot of Mike Stamford, and lots and lots of fudge. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The first time that John broke his fibula in a footer accident, it was nothing much to worry about, the doctors told him – it was a clean break, his leg should fully heal. A few weeks on crutches and he’d be fine. He bore the wait patiently and waited eagerly for his next game.

The second time, when a fellow teammate kicked him in the exact same spot in his very first game back, shattering the bone and forcing him into a cast again (“we don’t wish to worry you unduly, Mr. Watson, but you may have a limp for the rest of your life”), he decided that maybe football wasn’t his game after all. His team and captain were sympathetic, but having already found a promising replacement last time this had happened they were all too ready to let him off the team for good.

In the meantime, therefore, John was bored. With all this time he’d spent lying down reading he was more than up to speed with the coursework. He needed a new hobby, preferably one that could be accomplished entirely sitting down. The main possibilities seemed to be the university chess club or the knitting circle, neither of which exactly enthralled him. 

“It’s just that I haven’t anything really absorbing to do right now,” he told his roommate. “Nothing to occupy my attention.”

“That’s a strange thing,” Mike remarked. “You’re the second man today that’s said that to me.”

“And who was the first?”

“Oh, someone I know from the boxing club. One of the Dean’s favourites, so he must be going in for chemistry. Said that school is profoundly dull and it was all the worse because nobody else seemed to appreciate that, so he was trying to find something halfway entertaining to do.”

John shrugged. “Is he stuck in a cast too?”

“No. I’m not sure what bothers him, to tell the truth; he’s not easy to draw out.”

“Well, tell him to come down and visit me. We can commiserate about our mutual boredom or something. God, I was going to have such fun my first year, and I’ve spent most of it stuck in this room.”

Mike looked at him sympathetically. John had tried not to be annoyed, but it was hard not to be bitter; his roommate was an all-around athlete with a full social calendar and was in fact due to run down to the rugby field in five minutes, which fun was probably to be followed by clubbing and dancing. None of which could be helped, but it was frustrating.

“I’ll let him know,” Mike promised.

The next day, John was watching a dreadful reality show and chucking darts across the room out of utter boredom, when the door opened unexpectedly. A tall, curly-haired stranger casually strolled in. John instinctively flung the dart towards him – the man caught it, looked at the wall and pushed the dart into the top of the V-shape John had been methodically impaling.

“Sorry,” John said. “You startled me.”

The stranger shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Mike told me I should come down here some time and see how you were getting on. Only ten minutes ago, but since I’d nothing better to do I thought ‘some time’ might as well be now.”

“I thought I locked the door.”

“You did. I unlocked it.” He waggled something silvery in the air before pushing it deep into the pockets of his rather sweet coat. “Skeleton key. I made a wax impression of the Dean’s.”

“You think that the way to introduce yourself to someone is to break into their rooms?”

“Of course not, I think the way you introduce yourself is by telling your name to the other person. Sherlock Holmes.” He offered his hand for a shake; John took it, surprised by how strong the man’s grip was. “And you’re John. I understand you’re looking for something to do all day.”

“I suppose so. Yes.”

“Good. I need a test subject. You’d be an ideal candidate.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Test subject? As in, experiments? Human experiments?”

“No! Well, yes, but not in the way you think. I’ve been trying to find someone who’ll help me evaluate a, ah, a recipe. There’s a school cooking competition coming up soon, next Bank Holiday. I’m determined to win, and willing to compensate you for sampling mine.”

“Why don’t you try it yourself?”

“I already am. But,” Sherlock explained, “there’s nothing like having a second opinion. I only have so much tolerance for sugar. I need a partner with a good palate, who can eat everything I make and give me consistent, logical assessments as to their value. And you’re planning to take medicine, aren’t you? I could use an expert on the human body.”

“I’m not that much of an expert, not yet…hang about, you knew I wanted to be a doctor? How’d you deduce that?”

“Erm. Mike told me,” Sherlock confessed. “But…will you agree? I’ll have finished fitting out the burners and things by lunch tomorrow, if you could come by my room then it’d be just perfect. 221 in the Baker Building. On the first floor.”

John laughed. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.

“All right. Noon exactly.”

Sherlock turned out to be one of the lucky few to have a double room all to himself, John saw when he’d hauled himself to the indicated suite the next day. Half of it was given over to the regular college detritus, dubious socks, maltreated books and so forth. The other part, where a roommate ought to have been, was pristine and looked as though it was mopped and sterilised every morning. A laboratory bench was set up there, with a neat selection of Bunsen burners, retorts, beakers and so forth, apparently bubbling away with a weird burbling that repeated incessantly. One large unsightly fridge stood at the end.

Sherlock was mixing something at the bench, in a large opaque glass bowl. “Hullo, John,” he said without turning around.

I’m glad he expects punctuality, John thought, carefully setting himself down on the bed; the bedspread was flat, but he suspected that the pile of clothing shoved to one side had been only recently removed from its previous nesting place. “Hullo. So what’s this dish I’m supposed to be tasting?” 

“Fudge. Variants on fudge. We’ll begin with your basic chocolate today, then move on to other varieties in due course. I’ve started a little late, but no great matter, I should have run through all the flavours I have in mind before the contest.”

“Oh. Wish I’d known that’s what you had in mind. I haven’t had lunch yet.” He’d come expecting to be fed; there was a hollowness in his gut that was nagging to be satisfied by something heartier than a bit of dessert.

“Excellent, that means you won’t have tasted anything else recently and there’ll be no competing flavours in your mouth. However, swish this around first anyway.” Sherlock handed John an unmarked bottle of clear liquid and a pale blue teacup.

“Swish?”

“It’s to clean out your mouth. Spit it out when you’re done.” He turned back to his bowl and began stirring again with much vigour.

John dubiously poured out a shot and sampled it, to find the smoothest tasting vodka he’d ever tasted. He swished and swallowed, enjoying the warm burn of the liquor – this wasn’t such a bad way to start off an afternoon’s dessert testing. 

“Don’t go drinking it, now. It’ll ruin the results if you’re intoxicated,” Sherlock called.

“As long as I’m allowed to eat the fudge. I assume you won’t mind that, at least?”

“By all means. It’d dry out your mouth too much otherwise, and I want to know if it swallows smoothly as well. Now, this batch will be ready to go on the burners in about five minutes, and then into the fridge, but I’ve already prepared some samples.” He extracted a plate piled high and passed it to John.

“Sherlock, these are huge! Thick as my thumb, at least. Are you seriously expecting me to eat all these?” The white square dish looked like a chessboard, with the dark squares of fudge methodically placed at right angles to each other. Each one had a little cocktail stick stuck into the geometric middle, tapering up to a plastic number fashioned into the top.

“You see how I’ve enumerated them? Taste them, savour them, then begin making notes on this piece of paper, recording your opinion of each according to the given list of criteria. Appearance, consistency, overall sweetness, and so forth. There’s space given over for any extra comments that might occur to you.”

“Blimey. You’re dead serious about this, aren’t you?”

“But of course. I should have thought that would be obvious. Don’t bolt them, now.”

John bit into one of the soft, yielding squares and was hard put to it not to gasp in pleasure. The slightest roughness of sugar crystals dusted on top melted in his mouth as he explored the cube with his tongue, delving into the velvety richness of the chocolate flavouring, gently breaking it apart along a tiny stress facture. It was smooth. It was exquisite. 

He had five more of these things to eat. Rapidly, John began scribbling down his comments into all of Sherlock’s little boxes, taking care to be as neat and precise as possible. This was by far the best fudge he’d ever had. With a sense of delightful intensity, he tasted the squares as though his life depended upon it. It was the only way to do them justice.

After finishing, he handed Sherlock the piece of paper. Sherlock looked at it and snorted.  
“Well, you passed my little test. I had to be sure, but if you’d gotten that wrong there would have been no point to this at all.”

John hid a smile. “You mean the way that they were all identical except for the one with extra cocoa powder in it? Was it cocoa powder?”

“Just extra melted chocolate, actually, but close enough for my purposes. Well done. We can get to work seriously now.” He passed John another, even bigger plate.

"Now if you can start recording your opinion on these, please…"

Between mouthfuls, John started trying to engage Sherlock in a little chit-chat, to get to know him better, though he didn’t have much luck; without saying in so many words, Sherlock made it clear that he wasn’t the sociable type. It occurred to John to wonder whether, possibly, this entire arrangement was all contrived so that his fellow student could get to know someone else, but he discarded it - surely, someone that bright could think of an easier way to get to know people.

No doubt either that Sherlock genuinely liked his fudge, either. He plucked a cube off each new batch and ate it with every evidence of enjoyment. Not for him the half-guilty, rapid shove of confectionery into the mouth: instead, a lick, a thoughtful look, maybe the smallest of nibbles taken off the corner. The effect was enticing, mesmeric. John found himself watching for it each time, feeling a pleasurable shiver run down his spine when Sherlock finally stopped toying with the sweetmeat and pursed his mouth around the cube, as though he was sucking it like a lolly.

By the time John had finished eating his way through twenty cubes of fudge (“take it slowly,” Sherlock had advised, “take the whole afternoon if you like, I can afford to be patient”), he didn’t think he wanted lunch any more. He wasn’t sure he’d be up for tea when that came around, either. The sugar had him slightly wired, but less than might have been expected; he mentioned this curiously.

"I’m using more butter than is usual. Fudge doesn’t need to be quite as sugary as everyone thinks it needs to be; what people truly respond to is the combination of butterfat and sugars. As least," Sherlock declared with great dignity, "that’s my working hypothesis. Controls are made according to regular fudge-preparation specifications, mind. I shall rely on you to provide the empirical evidence as to whether I’m right or not."

"I’ll do my best to provide you with the assistance you desire." John had intended to say that dryly, but it came out with more sincerity than he’d expected. And Sherlock looked so pleased to hear it, too.

“Be here tomorrow at noon again, please. We have a lot of possibilities to get through yet.”

John nodded, hobbled out and would have punched the air if he could have managed that while holding crutches. Not only was he helping out a fellow student, it was by noshing on sweets? What a fantastic setup!

Maybe all his bad luck was finally starting to turn for the better.

 

So they went on like that for several weeks. Aside from the noon session, John began stopping by in the evenings as well, to chat about new recipes, discuss biochemistry, even just talk sometimes. Sherlock had the burning passion of an enthusiast for his subject, though not just the one; he could talk vividly on any number of topics. John responded to his love of learning – who’d go into medicine if they didn’t appreciate knowledge? – and they came to spend hours quite literally comparing notes and finding improbable connections between their pet subjects. But it always came back around again to the fudge.

One main flavour a day: chocolate, peanut butter, mint, banana, butterscotch, vanilla, cinnamon, strawberry. With or without nuts (walnuts, pecans, hazelnut, cashew, chestnut, pistachio), with different types of sugar (white, brown, golden), with regular milk, condensed milk, or eggnog. There were a multitude of variations. It was tough work sorting them out.

John ate them all, recorded his opinions meticulously, flourished and waxed fat. At first it was mildly embarrassing; with all the fudge he was eating, and the general lack of exercise, he was ballooning outwards something noticeable. Muscles developed on the football pitch were softening, under a thickening layer of fat; his waist developed a paunch that his friends laughingly diagnosed as the result of too much beer, though he knew better. Alcohol wasn’t responsible for making those pounds and folds.

It was, oddly, the first time someone remarked on this adversely that helped John get over his self-consciousness. Mike and several of his friends were going to town for a long-awaited, eagerly-anticipated boxing competition; John had assumed his inability to get around had released him from a forgotten promise to come along, but Mike had gotten hold of a wheelchair from somewhere as well and talked his roommate into coming along with the crowd. They’d all enjoyed it well enough, as it happened - Mike knew a fair amount about the noble art of pugilism and was happy to provide running commentary, while John’s budding understanding of anatomy meant that all expected him to provide expert medical commentary (he did his best, but after several hours and drinks he rather lost track of things and started inventing terms - “oh, he’s just been punched in the cocothoraxicalroid, he has” - to general giggles and applause.) They had a good time of it until the end, when the beloved local favourite lost on a questionable-looking technicality and the general drunken gaiety turned sour. Mike and Co. sized up the situation and steered John out of there as fast as possible.

This turned out to be a bad move, however, as the street was where the local police weren’t (they were all still inside, the force having being quite happy to come and supervise since that meant they were allowed in for free) and tensions were only heightened outside. A group of particularly disappointed youths, sore at their favourite, the universe, and quite a lot else if one was to judge by their multitudinous swearing, noticed them and switched topics to complaining about the opposing fans. One particularly displeased character loudly declaimed something about “people so fat that they have to have wheelchairs to get around -“.

"You really want to finish that sentence, mate?" Mike bellowed back. "Cos if you’re too thick to know a cast when you see one, I’ll be happy to knock some sense into that skull of yours!"

"Come and have a go then!"

Whereupon started a second and totally unscheduled fight. All their mates on both sides started shouting the pair on.

John, who in the normal way of things would have strode in and tried to stop the fight, by shoving the two out of each other’s way if necessary, was reduced to glaring impotently instead. Not that this did the slightest good. 

"Frustrating, isn’t it?" a voice said into his ear.

"You could put it that way. Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

There was a rustle characteristic of his fellow student’s shrug. “Curiosity. It’s good to see a professional at work; my own technique improves, but still needs work. Not but what I couldn’t take that fellow over there.”

"Why don’t you, then?"

"One on one, John, is a fight. Two on one isn’t cricket. Besides, your roommate’s defending your honour perfectly well already." He paused; John could imagine that languid expression of his, gazing lazily at the tussle. "Even if his opponent wasn’t staggeringly drunk, I’d have put my money on Mike to win this. He’s in much better condition and looks excellent. Very fit."

John couldn’t quell an odd pang at the bottom of his heart at those words - and where had that come from, then - but was distracted by the next comment.

"Besides, he’s not thinking about this logically. Leaving you alone in a crowd containing hostile elements? No," Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around those of the wheelchair, holding it protectively. "My priority would be to stay right here and make sure you’re all right."

"As, in fact, you are now doing." His shoulder was cocked just right for John to rest his head against. John found himself nestling into it.

"As, in fact, I am now doing. Though not for much longer, I should think. There we are!"

Mike had finished punching out the young offender, who now lay dazed on the pavement. “And it’s no business of yours what my mate looks like. A hell of a lot better than you do right now, I’ll say that much. Now say sorry.”

"Sorry," the would-be pugilist whined.

"Go on, louder!"

"Sorry!"

"Mike, that’s enough," John called. "You’ve proven your point now."

"Well, if you say so." Mike came up, a little flushed and grinning as their fellow students cheered and clapped him on the back. "Oh, hullo Sherlock. When did you get here?"

"Just now. Looking after John here."

“Ah now, that’s supposed to be my job. I am his roommate, after all,” Mike said lightly, stretching out his hands to take the wheelchair’s handles again.

“Oh? You seem to have vacated that responsibility in favour of cheap street brawling.”

There was a pause; clearly Sherlock wasn’t moving. John got the idea they were looking at each other jealously.

"Oh, sod this. I’m not completely helpless." He found the chair’s rims and started wheeling himself away.

“Hang about,” he heard Mike say, distantly; John made up his mind to ignore the silly pair and rolled away faster. It wasn’t much further to the train station from here. He made it onto the platform without further incident.

A hand hesitantly touched his shoulder; one of them had caught up, but which one? “Please don’t say you stopped to have another fight about me,” John snapped – the comment would do whichever one of them it was, especially if a fight was, in fact, what had happened.

“Sorry,” and “Sorry, John,” two voices said, not quite together.

“Didn’t mean to upset you about that fight. I should have remembered you don’t like unorganized tiffs, it just got to me the way that eejit was talking. It’s not like I’m ballerina-sized myself, either.”

“Indeed, you might have thanked him,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Oh, don’t go making a fuss,” Mike said warmly. “It’s no good making people feel like they’re under an obligation. Forget it all happened. We had a good time out tonight, didn’t we? Glad we came?”

John couldn’t resist the appeal; he turned the chair around and looked at his two best friends. “Course I am. Look, Mike, it was nice of you standing up to him like that, thanks, but don’t do it again, would you? I’d like to think I can fight my own battles if they need it.” Which they rarely do, he added mentally.

“All right. Will do. I’d better go find the rest of our lot, we came on ahead to find you.” Mike gave Sherlock a significant look and ran off.

John glanced sideways at Sherlock. “And thanks for looking after me, too.”

“Always a pleasure, John.”

 

The day after that, John finally plucked up the courage to ask Sherlock why, precisely, did he insist on playing what was obviously a sound effect of bubbling beakers whenever he was working on a particularly complex bit of chemistry.

“It just seems like gilding the lily. Why do that instead of, you know, making your actual real beakers right here bubble or something?”

Sherlock has turned pink and protested that it helped him think, actual chemical reactions didn’t hum away like that half so pleasingly, he liked the sound effect and always had since he’d watched “The Man in the White Suit” as a child, and for goodness’ sake if John didn’t like it, he could bring something else in.

The next day John brought the vintage Walkman he’d bought at Camden Market once and repaired himself, now rigged out to play Madness. It was, he insisted, a very pleasant accompaniment to walnut and fruit bits fudge.

The day after that Sherlock had found a genuine phonograph sent in (“mail order is so convenient nowadays, John”) and records to match. John, deliriously sugar-high after a few bites of the new extra-super-sweetened recipe, listened to the Bach without complaint.

He retaliated with Slade the next day. Sherlock swore blind that “Cum On Feel the Noize” ruined his cherry. John, already halfway through the supposedly uneatable plate, shrugged and said it’d be no problem to consume it again if Sherlock fancied.

It turned out Sherlock did. As a matter of fact he kept making the most unfortunate accidents that day, then discovering them at inconvenient moments, forcing John to keep eating fudge, and then more fudge, and yet more fudge…

He drifted off into a dreamy trance state, aware that somewhere along the line he’d smeared his face with red and brown traces now drying out, noticing the much quickened beating of his heart, but most of all conscious of the enormity of the stomach currently weighing him down. Never mind my leg, John thought; I couldn’t move in this state if I wanted to. Even lying down flat he could see it, the huge mass that was his own flesh and blood, or would be once he’d finished digesting it.

“This, this feels good, S’lock,” he mumbled. “I like it like this.”

“Is that so,” and of course Sherlock hadn’t been eating fudge all this time, his voice was clear and clinical still, but there was a frisson of excitement to it all the same. “You…you don’t mind I like it too, I hope?”

“Feeds me fudge all day and asks whether I’ve got a problem. Course I don’t, less I wouldn’t be here.” He drifted off, warmed by the sweetmeats he’d enjoyed, vaguely wondering how long he’d stay sleeping. 

Sherlock woke him up in time for dinner, to briskly help him towards the dining hall. In a way it might have been a mild disappointment, but then again it was pleasant having a proper meal out together. They’d not interacted much in public before, for no especial reason except their different schedules; a few heads turned to see the notorious loner, notoriously good-looking Sherlock partnered with someone. John quite liked the effect. They devoured beef and roasted potatoes in peaceful amiability, and came to a compromise on the music; John would pick it one day and Sherlock the next. Sherlock held out for playing his funny little sound effect to start the day with, though.

John allowed that it had rather grown on him. 

As time passed and the would-be doctor’s observational skills grew more nuanced (aided when Sherlock stopped fiddling around with the silly flavours and settled his hopes on the traditional chocolate), the distinctions between fudges became more subtle, more nuanced. John started joking that he could distinguish between different flavours of fudge by smell, and wasn’t entirely surprised when a careful experiment suggested he could.

“We should write a monograph,” Sherlock said, looking pleased. “We’ve kept careful records. I may have set up the experiment, but you’re the one proving it.”

Investigation on the matter proved that the market for methodical recipe analysis in a scientific context was slim. John started writing it up as a blog instead, which meant yet more time spent with Sherlock. It was so convenient having him right there in the room when one wanted to throw in an extra detail or two. They didn’t discuss any of their recipes or special techniques (John’s suggestion that the batches were smoother when the butter was warmed to room temperature before preparation was kept quiet), but there was still a lot that could be said about method. A few people even read it.

A week before the fudge competition, the doctors took off the cast again. “Do try not to break it again this time, Mr. Watson,” he was smilingly warned. John dearly wanted to reciprocate with a string of invectives regarding the horror of having been stuck in one of the things for what amounted to months on end, and his urgent desire to never again do anything to put his leg at risk, and just about managed to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to be the subject of “doctors make terrible patients” jokes before he’d even made it into med school. 

Mike came along as moral support and asked if he could keep the cast as a souvenir. John, bewildered, said yes and was rather touched when it showed up on his bed the next day, with “We’re all very sorry, hope you never need this again” written on it from the football team.

“Odd they didn’t do that when I had it on,” John said.

“You didn’t exactly give them a chance; you told me to tell them you weren’t in whenever they came along, remember? You’re a lot more cheerful these days than you were. Even more than when we started in September, at that.”

“Oh, right. New school, new people, I was on my guard.”

“That Sherlock’s doing you good. You’ve something to think about now. All those sweet-talk of yours.”

John eyed him. Mike’s face was perfectly steady. 

“Well, maybe,” he admitted. 

The Bank Holiday weekend came at last. Sherlock called him, frantic, the night before the contest.  

“John? John! Something dreadful’s happened. Please come over at once.” He hung up without even bothering to explain.

John fetched his stick – a fine, old antique one, the kind that was probably filled with lead or had a hidden liquor compartment or something, though he hadn’t checked it over thoroughly yet – and stumped up to the Baker Building.

Sherlock’s room was an inferno, or more accurately had just ceased being one; foam and ash lay everywhere, the chemistry section was a write-off and the loose things were even more scattered than was usual. Firefighters dragged out hoses, campus security were trampling around, and Sherlock was in a rage, still clutching two shopping bags with ingredients for the contest tomorrow and swearing the air blue.

“Yes, I know exactly who it was! James Moriarty. My archrival in the cooking competition. He came in here and set it, he has to have done.”

John had met Moriarty once or twice; he supposedly ran the Drama Club with an iron fist.  
For the two years the man had been at university, there had been only one show put on, and it was always Cats. Moriarty insisted on playing Macavity, so successfully that he stood out as the star in any performance. Sherlock had spoken about him bitterly before, calling him the most pervasive, most insidious presence in the school, but John had written that off as the anxiety of a frustrated genius who knew he was up against stiff competition – cooking was the actor’s only other love, to all accounts. But if Moriarty had been responsible for something this drastic…

“Oh, hullo John,” Sherlock added, visibly easing at the sight of a familiar face. “These police gentleman are just leaving. I told them they won’t find any evidence about who’d done it here, Moriarty’s too clever for that, but they wouldn’t listen to me at the start.”

“Look here, where’s Sherlock going to stay tonight? He can’t sleep in that bed, that’s evident.”

“Something can be arranged,” boomed a voice. John turned around just in time to see the Dean gaze down at them with a disapproving expression. “Not that I’m sure you deserve it. An entire chemical laboratory in your room? Have you any notion of how many university and public health regulations you’ve broken? It’s a mercy the fire didn’t spread.”

The student looked him in the eye, very calmly. John stumped over to stand by Sherlock; he could provide moral support, if nothing else.

“I had the chemicals locked up and perfectly secure, sir, it couldn’t have been by accident. The fact that the fire didn’t spread further than it did should be proof of my caution. If you check the walls, the adjoining rooms aren’t even damaged.”

“And I suppose you think that counts as a defense, eh? Trembling on the verge of expulsion, Holmes…”

John had caught hold of his friend’s hand now, and tried not to wince at the desperate, convulsive grasp with which it was squeezed. Though Sherlock still looked perfectly self-possessed.

“Considering that my room is a crime scene, I think it’s entirely possible that you’re jumping to conclusions, sir.”

It was perhaps fortunate for the general temper of the room that at this point a short, scruffy chap, notable only for a jumper nearly as tasteless as the shapeless ones John favoured (more so now, with his increased size), interrupted. 

“Mumbles? Does it have to be now?” Sherlock pleaded.

“Mumbles?” the Dean said sharply. “You boys and your absurd nicknames.”

“Because he mumbles a lot in class, that’s why. Can you spit it out quickly for once in your life?”

“I just thought…Ijusthouushoulknowitwasmewotdunnit.”

“You what?”

“I said, sir, I did it. I set the fire.”

“A confession?” The Dean looked livid. John felt as though he’d remembered how to breathe again. “This is not a matter of purloining food from the dining hall! What possessed you?”

The unfortunate boy hung his head. “I just did it for a lark, sir. We were talking about the applications of a particular catalyst in class the other day, and the labs are closed for Bank Holiday, but we all knew about Sherlock’s here. So I came here and tried to see if I could replicate the results we had in class. It got out of control and I…I got scared and I ran off. And called the fire department.”

“That was a very irresponsible thing to do! However. You’re willing to confirm there was a chemistry laboratory set-up in this room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that in fact all the boys knew about this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Holmes, will you ever learn better about your braggart ways?” the Dean said, clicking his tongue reprovingly. “You’re never going to make a detective if you can’t keep secrets better than that.”

“That part’s not true either,” Sherlock said steadily. “I’ve been very discreet.”

“Well, you obviously weren’t careful enough, were you?” The Dean shook his head tragically and turned his head to the police officers. “Under the circumstances, I don’t think you need stay here any longer. Unless both you boys are determined to cause a university scandal and yourselves considerable personal troubles by insisting on pressing charges against each other? Because otherwise it’s cause for your mutual expulsions, I should think.”

“No, sir,” they said together. 

"Very good. I think you’ve both been suitably punished for this night’s work, in your own ways. Sherlock, I’ll arrange to have you put up in…well, in a common room or somewhere - "

"He can stay with me, sir," John said quickly. "My roommate’s out to Brighton for the weekend, there’s plenty of space."

"Fine, fine. We can discuss more permanent arrangements tomorrow. The repair money’s coming out of your scholarship, Sherlock. And in your future rooms there are not to be any more such laboratory setups, do you understand?"

The “Yes, sir,” came with a remarkable meekness. The Dean closed his eyes briefly and strode out, closely followed by Mumbles and the last of the fire brigade.

“Odd of him,” John commented. “I can’t tell whether he hates you or wants to make you teacher’s pet.”

The ghost of a smile lightened Sherlock’s features. “It’s just lucky he didn’t find these.” He stuck his hand into a crumbling charcoaled desk drawer and pulled out his skeleton keys. They still shone, brightly polished as ever. “This is his way of throwing me in the water to test whether I can swim. Dean Lestrade is basically well-intentioned towards me and inclined to encourage my ambitions of becoming a professional detective. It’s simply that he finds my intuitive thinking sloppy and in need of gentle pushing towards more, well, methodical methods.”

An unhappy expression crossed his face, as he started sorting through the wreckage to salvage what was left. John hoped that Sherlock wasn’t the sentimental sort. “I was going to show him all the experiments we’ve done, just to prove that I can do the paperwork when I want, but now this has happened. All my notes gone. I had the original copies and I’ve backed them up on my computer, but they’re both ruined now. My memory is good, but it’d take an eternity to reconstruct it all.”

John winked at him. “This isn’t the nineteenth century. Look what I have on my phone.”

Of course, this being real life, it took him a few deflating seconds to pull up the snapshots he’d taken – shots he’d taken of each painstakingly created sheet of paper, page after page of fudge notes carefully recorded. But they were all there, and complete.

“I wanted to have a record for myself, you know. Especially after I started the blog, remember?”

“John, you’re wonderful,” Sherlock said laughingly, trembled towards him for a moment then rocked back on his heels and turned serious again. “Ah. The blog. With you making it clear that we work together, and it being fairly obvious that we spend considerable time closeted in my room together, of course Moriarty put the facts together to guess about my lab. At least that explains how he found out.”

John brushed off the heavy lab bench and sat down, to watch Sherlock at work. “Moriarty reads our blog, then?”

“Possibly even comments. I could probably prove that, if I thought it worth the effort. It wouldn’t be. He’d never say anything actionable.”

“So what the Dean said, how you want to be…a police detective, or something? You’ve not mentioned that before.”

Shrug. “I don’t have the method down yet, not reliably. Nor the knowledge, either; being able to correlate facts is no good if you don’t know enough facts. So for now I’m in training to be a chemist, the most complicated of the subjects I want to be au fait with.”

“Not medicine?”

“Doctors devote their lives to medicine. I can’t afford to be that specialised. Besides, our talks about biochemistry will provide me with a layman’s understanding.” He palmed a little of the ash, watching it trickle through his fingers.

“You’re counting a lot on my scientific know-how, but all right. There’s still one thing. Why did the Dean let Mumbles off so easily?”

“Mumbles isn’t the type to think of a stunt like this himself. He may have set the fire, but he did it under instruction, and clearly from someone who intimidates him. It’s not a nice thing, being someone else’s henchman.”

“So the Dean agrees with you that someone’s behind all this. And even odds that ‘someone else’ is Moriarty.”

“Exactly. But there’s no way to prove that, with Mumbles making the confession as neat and easy as you please. I’ll have to wait until Moriarty shows his hand.”

John abruptly remembered something. “I’d better get back to my room,” he said, sliding off the bench and grabbing his stick. “There’s something there I’ve forgotten about.”

“Take the fudge ingredients with you, would you? I thought it was overly paranoid of me to pack them all in coolers, but if I hadn’t then the butter would be non-negotiable by now. Should be all right for tomorrow still, if there’s a stove we can borrow.”

“Molly at the commune told me that they have one. We can ask her.”

“Not what I could hope for in terms of temperature control, but needs must.”

What John had forgotten about wasn’t so much something as someone –namely, Mike. Who was in there, chatting on his mobile and watching the footer. “Mike? Look, you know how you were trying to talk me into taking a trip to Brighton?”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I’d remembered the great fudge competition was tomorrow.” He grinned.

"Right. Look, I, uh, I sort of promised the Dean that Sherlock could stay here, his room’s just burned down, and…you know."

Mike whistled. “About bloody time, John Watson. You’ve finally bagged yourself a boyfriend, have you?”

"It’s not like that! Why are you assuming we’re a couple?"

"John, half the building reckons that. You two spend hours together closeted up alone in his rooms, what do you think people would say?"

"We’re testing. Fudge."

"Try hearing yourself say that. What do you think I introduced the two of you for in the first place?" He clapped John warmly on the shoulder. "Well done, mate. I’ll be back in time for the French prep Monday night, all right? Just give me a few minutes to pack and we’ll be sorted." 

John stood there, a little slack-jawed at the idea that his roommate had gone to the trouble of setting him up with another bloke, therefore confirming several things about his sexuality that he’d never actually said to Mike. He was a hefty rugby player, after all. It’d seemed just as well not to upset him. 

"Thanks," he said quietly, feeling tears prickle his eyes. He blinked, rapidly, and they went away. 

Mike winked at him. “No problem.”

 

“I’m not entirely certain I ought to be sleeping in Mike’s bed,” Sherlock said critically, some time later. He looked like he’d showered, had found a change of clothing from somewhere, and barring the lingering smell of smoke was clean and presentable.

“Dammit, you’re right. We made a pact about that, after I came back one night to find he’d put up one of his teammates in mine. Covered in sticky mud or something. Imagine the laundry.”

"I suppose there’s the window seat."

"Do you fit?"

"No."

"So we’ve got three choices. I sleep on the floor, you sleep on the floor, or…”

“Or we share the bed, you mean?”

“Right. Not, you know, that way. Just because it’d be a bit painful otherwise. These are very hard floors.”

“They certainly are. I’d rather not sleep on them.”

“Neither would I.”

“Will, erm…will we both fit?”

Therein followed a period of careful movement and arrangement. As it happened, the one bed just about worked, although Sherlock said it was a mercy John hadn’t gained any more weight than he had.

“If I gained much more, I’d be a whale and be sleeping on the floor because the bed wouldn’t hold me. You could sleep on my stomach.”

“I’m almost doing that anyway. Please tell me you’re not one of those hog-the-bed types?”

“Dunno. First time for everything,”

It was much too early to go to bed by university standards – only eleven or so – but John guessed his friend was probably tired now, after the shock and the stress of the last hour. Likely he needed his sleep for the competition tomorrow, too. 

Still, they could talk a bit longer.

“You don’t really need that cane any more, do you?” Sherlock asked sleepily, as they curled up together.

“Not really. My leg’s practically recovered. But,” John confessed. “It’s so much easier on me to use it. I mean, think about my weight now.”

“My fault, I suppose. Like everything else that’s happened today.”

“Your fault? Sherlock, you couldn’t have helped someone setting your room on fire.”

“I suppose I could have not kept a Bunsen burner. Or a pile of highly explosive chemicals in my bedroom.”

“It wasn’t for you to know that Mumbles was going to be talked into using it. What’s brought on this fit of conscience?”

“I’m just very…aware, of the effect these experiments have been having on you is all.”

"It’s not like you’re tying me down and forcing me to eat fudge, or spend hours with you obsessing over fudge, or writing about fudge. I’m enjoying it. If I want to be fat that’s my business."

"You’re saying you like being fat, you mean?"

"Well, I wouldn’t have thought to go out and do it on purpose, but since it’s happening…yeah, I’m fine with it. Besides, I can always go on a bit of a diet after this. If I decided I wanted to."

Pause.

“I think I might prefer it if you didn’t,” Sherlock said softly.

“That’s good, because I don’t think I was honestly intending to anyway.”

John heard the briefest hint of a chuckle before he slid into sleep.

 

Molly at the student commune did have a working stove, and was glad to lend it to them. To John’s relief, and Sherlock’s utter delight, it worked like a charm. The creamy pecan fudge, the final result of all their time and testing, came out like a dream. It was put into the fridge for cooling.

John lingered, to watch over the precious stuff and chat with Molly for a few more minutes, while Sherlock went to the dining hall to inspect the impending preparations and mark off two seats up front. The collegiate fudge competition was to be judged by a panel of three; the school’s head chef, a celebrity baker in from London, and the Dean himself (whose idea this had all been in the first place, apparently; Sherlock had been much amused to find out that the entire reason the contest existed was to allow him to devour fudge and speak about it loftily at regular intervals. Or so he’d told John, at any rate.)

The other two judges had yet to arrive, but the Dean was there already, directing students and arranging all the other paraphernalia of a public event; he nodded at Sherlock. “Good morning, Holmes. Your entry will be ready when the time comes, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine, fine. Any progress on yesterday’s incident?” He looked at Sherlock significantly.

“I thought it might not be fair on Mumbles, seeing as it’s only me concerned. If it happened again, maybe not.” Sherlock had a slightly guilty feeling as of having skimped on coursework or something, but the Dean looked sympathetic.

“It won’t be as easy as all that, you know. These things escalate. But as long as it is only you two involved, have at it for all I care…”

Sherlock poked around a little more, but there wasn’t anything else to do. He went back to the commune and waited for the fudge to set. John did his best to help placate his impatient companion, but there was nothing to be done now but wait.

It seemed the longest hour of his life.

Eventually it passed, as time must. They sliced up the fudge and brought it in triumph to the college kitchens, to be kept cool in the big fridges until called for.

Sherlock stood by a chair instead of on it, reknotting his scarf for the hundredth time that day. John, still carrying the empty coolers and the rest of the paraphernalia, sat down next to him heavily and breathed out a little hard.

“Winded, John?”

“A bit, but mostly anxiety. Wish they’d start already.” The wait hadn’t been a picnic for him either.

The Dean rose and made a speech about the fine traditions of the school and the healthy spirit of competition that these old grey stones had foreseen over so many generations (dull but edifying, and certainly a dignified way to start the proceedings). Mercifully, the school chef headed off several digressions with gentle prompting about needing to end this before luncheon preparations began, and they finally started only twenty minutes late.

One by one, students brought their offerings to the judging table, dressed in most formal clothes and bearing themselves with a dignity that reminded John more of chapel than anything he’d have associated with tasty desserts. They listened in fearful silence as their elders praised or blamed in a few succinct words. Some sat down in smiles, some in tears; one “fruitcake fudge” was criticised in the strongest possible terms for being more alcohol than sweet, and a competitor who had brought tablet was thrown out on his ear.

“Did you not read the very clear and precise instructions? Fudge, my boy, fudge! Take this Scottish confectionary away and bring it to some competition with less,” the Dean looked sternly down his nose, “less high and lofty standards.”

The malefactor, in fear and trembling, fled. John was starting to appreciate just why Sherlock had been drawn to an affair like this.

Moriarty was called in about halfway through; his sharp-cut suit was all of the best, with the double-Windsor knot, handkerchief in the breast pocket, every other little detail nice and precise. He carried his dessert on a blue willow china plate that, John reckoned bitterly, was probably an original Wedgwood or something. 

“My own chocolate-walnut fudge for the judges, with my compliments.”

John and Sherlock looked at each other; they’d come very close to going for the same recipe, bearing in mind its virtues of plainness and simplicity, but had eventually ruled it out for exactly those reasons (“wouldn’t it be ridiculous, Sherlock, if we spent all this time on experimenting only to come back to the single most obvious recipe imaginable?”; “precisely my thought, John”.)

The judges tasted it.

“Meticulous,” said the head chef.

“Acceptable,” said the Dean.

“Unimaginative,” said the baker.

“That’s exactly what’s wrong with it, isn’t it? No true thought put into this whatsoever. Might as well have found the recipe out of a cookbook.”

“Quite so. As if he’d set about duplicating the result of machine-made fudge. I’d have no use for that in any of my shops, why would anyone pay more money for a taste that generic? The machine will do you one better every time.”

“But it’s technically good. That seems like the sort that might be expected to appeal to a broad audience, if it could be made on a larger scale…”

John watched Moriarty grit his teeth – the students weren’t allowed to talk during the tasting ritual, so he couldn’t answer back. The eventual marks were low, not even as high as several of the other students had already gained.

He sensed Sherlock relax. However badly they did, at least Moriarty couldn’t win.

Competitor after competitor went up. Something in John was entirely unsurprised that his friend was called last. 

Sherlock brought up his neat square plate – the fudge was set on it with the same neat chequerboard pattern that he always favoured. John could see he was bursting with pride, maybe even a hint of a sashay as he walked towards the table – someone had left a window open, and the slight breeze blew his coat about with a pleasingly dramatic effect. The judges looked on approvingly, nodded graciously as the plate was ceremoniously placed in front of them. Sherlock, as he always did, plucked one of the pieces off the plate and popped it in his mouth. John felt a fission of nervousness on his friend’s behalf – none of the other competitors had done that, and it looked odd. And not a little undignified.

He felt considerably worse when Sherlock whipped a handkerchief out pocket and spat the mouthful into it. 

“Stop!” Sherlock bellowed. “You musn’t eat it!”

The judges stopped, fudge halfway to their mouths.

“My fudge is sweeter than it ought to be. Too sweet. It’s been tampered with.” He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and picked out a cube. “You can see how something’s been introduced into it. There’s a tiny puncture mark.”

“Tampered?” The Dean broke open a cube, sniffed it, and to John’s horror licked it. “Hmm. Well done, so it has. But what’s the poison?”

“Belladonna?”

“Use your head, Holmes, your cream would be stained with berry juice.”

“Ethylene glycol?”

“Rather better, but no.”

“There’s no chance that any of the other fudges were poisoned?” asked the baker, a rather sick look on her face.

The Dean shook his head. “I would have recognised the taste earlier, and I’m happy to say it hasn’t featured in any other fudges we’ve had today. We can’t discount the possibility of some more subtle poisoner, of course, but,” he said, with a wry smile, “that’s a risk one runs every day. However…Sherlock, you’re overthinking the problem. Stop jumping to conclusions and consider what it was you did taste.”

The student shuddered. “It’s…it’s just corn syrup, isn’t it? Plain simple corn syrup?”

“Afraid so.”

The Dean’s fellow judges looked less than comforted.

“Then we won’t be able to taste it, will we?” said the head chef. “Shame, really.”

Sherlock’s shoulders drooped. He looked totally defeated.

“That’s what this was about, then. I thought there’d be a mystery at the end! That I’d be framed for murder, or there’d be something for me to solve dramatically. And instead it’s just about spoiling my entry for the competition?”

He turned and looked daggers at Moriarty, who looked incredibly smug.

“Method, Holmes,” the Dean said warningly. “Intuition will only get you so far, as I keep telling you.”

“Right,” John said, stumping up with his stick in one hand and a covered plate in the other. “So it’s lucky that he thought ahead and has this other extra batch, isn’t it?” He placed it on the table in front of the judges. “Trust me. You’ll love it.”

The Dean was eyeing Sherlock. “Are this fudge squares truly your own, my boy?”

Sherlock took a cube and ate it, not looking at John. “I’d know my own recipe anyway.”

Finally, finally, the judges had the fudge. They took. They tasted.The eloquence and rhapsodies with which they joyfully glorified the product of John and Sherlock’s hard-earned labours can be better imagined than described. 

Needless to say, their fudge won. 

 

“John,” he said afterwards. “I never made any spare batch of fudge.”

“I know you didn’t. That’s why I stuck around at the commune. I only just finished mixing up this last batch to your recipe and had it in the cooler before you came back.”

“You knew this would happen?”

“No. It was just, after your room? Let’s just say I had a hunch lightening might strike twice.”

“It’s not exactly mine, then…”

“Don’t be silly. It’s the recipe you’ve spent all this time working out.”

“Well. The one that we’ve spent all this semester working out.”

“In which case it’s as much mine as yours, and I’ve a perfect right to present it myself. Everyone who asks us will know we both earned it.”

Sherlock grinned, cheekily. “Thanks for lying for me.”

“Any time, Sherlock.”

They were eating the remains of the batch, off the pretty bone china plate that was their reward for winning (“Just as well Moriarty didn’t win,” the Dean had said afterwards, “as he has a perfectly solid plate already.”) John thought that while it certainly was rather nice, in his heart of hearts the outré flavours were more to his liking. He looked forward to revisiting that orange-peanut butter milkfat. 

“But there’s still no proof. No proof at all,” Sherlock said eventually. “Anyone could have gone into the kitchens and injected my fudge, there were just too many people running around today. I can’t convince the police it was Moriarty without evidence.”

“He’s going to do something that we can catch him on, eventually. Especially if he keeps up like this. We’ll pin him down one of these days.”

“I suppose so, eventually. By the way,” Sherlock said, shyly. “A favour. I can’t stay in my rooms while they’re being repaired, and I’m not going to be able to get another double to myself, so…I’m going to need a roommate.”

“Let me guess. You want someone to move in with you so you can portion off part of it for another Bunsen burner and your beakers again?”

“If…I know you enjoy your arrangement with Mike, but maybe if you knew someone else, or something…” Sherlock trailed off, looking more and more as if he wished he hadn’t broached the topic.

“Then there’s only one question, really. Do I call and tell Mike I’m moving out now, or when he gets back from Brighton?”

“Make it a moving out party when he returns.” Laughter and relief danced through Sherlock’s face. “Are there any desserts he might enjoy?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John said, mock-seriously. “I can think of one or two fudge recipes we might try…”

**Author's Note:**

> Personally, I’m not all that keen on younger character fics. A major attraction of Sherlock from my perspective is having a show starring heroes who are not only ostentatiously intelligent but are specifically interesting because they are smart (almost by definition, doctors have to have a certain basic level of smarts). Younger versions of characters are by definition are less well trained, less experienced about the world, less equipped with those qualities that make our duo special. But they say you should do things that are difficult, after all. It made me think through how to portray the characters in a way that corresponded with my own interests, and that was a good challenge. 
> 
> I also wasn’t keen on the coincidence part of the meeting (it unbalances the plausibility in a story this short; you can get away with more coincidences in a novel), and therefore set about trying to think through why Sherlock would A. be scouting around for someone like John and B. be busy doing something Fatlock-oriented. Hey presto! Sherlock is preparing for a contest and needs a test subject. I nurse a mild regret that the chemical experiments Conan Doyle’s Sherlock performed, however questionable they may have been (and I’ve read many criticisms of his chemistry in Ye Serious Fan Essay Books With Hardcovers And Everything, Sherlock is such an old fandom) have been abandoned in BBC Sherlock for the sake of cheap visual gags about eyeballs. I am not certain why fudge occurred to me as the food catalyst in question. Perhaps simply because its ingredients are so simple and therefore plausible for remixing in this sort of thing.
> 
> And since I draw off ACD for plots and cues as often as not, Mike Stamford has to introduce the pair before they could get together, which induced me to set up the roommate setup with him and John (and use a good deal of the setup from “A Study in Scarlet”). Stamford is tremendous fun, and I’m looking forward to introducing him in “Until the Winds Change”. Lestrade was a cut-n’-paste of every stern-but-fair schoolmaster in British pop culture since the founding of Oxford, but I may have been thinking of Borusa from “Doctor Who” a bit more than most. The dry, smoothly serene version of the character, not the nutty power-crazed one. Proper fans will know the difference.
> 
> I had the boxing match incident partly because I’d just been reading a rather terrible novel by George Bernard Shaw about boxing and had the subject on my mind, but largely because it helped clear up the characterisation for both Mike and Sherlock and having John responding to them differently as a result. It’s useful not to go with the “of course John and Sherlock are going to get together” even in a Johnlock fic, because that’s too easy. Protagonists are more interesting when you see them making choices. 
> 
> It was also helpful in expressing the passage of time. You can’t go straight from the setup for the contest to the contest proper; that’s much too abrupt. Having something else happen in the meantime helps the reader feel that some time genuinely has passed when you return to the main plot. The music interlude helped with that too, although it was also there because once I’d thought of what the chemistry space would sound like, well...the Ealing comedy in question is explained perfectly well in the text anyway. I like Ealing comedies. Not everything in a story has to be to the point. 
> 
> And again, you have to not be afraid of reworking a story. I really wanted to have Moriarty genuinely poison the fudge, but...too complicated. Too many messy what-happens-next, plus it’s out of keeping with the general tone. And it’s more deflating to Sherlock this way, which is amusingly in-character. 
> 
> I also observed a problem I keep having; namely, if you tell a story from John’s perspective (as I tend to do, unless there’s a pressing reason not to), and you’re telling a first introduction story, it takes time to work up to the exchange of names and until then Sherlock has to remain nameless to John. Which is difficult for description purposes, the more so since they’re both blokes you can’t distinguish with “he said/she said”. This would get rather silly in “The feeling of arriving” even though there were solid plot reasons for it that time, but at least this time I reached the point fairly quickly. 
> 
> (Postscript: no, I didn’t actually make any of these fudges in the process of writing the fic. Sorry. If anyone wants to try I’d like to hear about it.)


End file.
